


Not Lois Lane

by zeph317



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Derek is still grumpy, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Stiles is a brash young reporter, canonical minor character deaths, rating may increase
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeph317/pseuds/zeph317
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gets a big break covering a string of suspicious deaths in Beacon Hills, but the bigger mystery might be the tall, dark and unfriendly reporter who always seems to show up and scoop his stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Lois Lane

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for the kink meme prompt: Derek/Stiles, journalist AU. I'm kind of enamored with the idea of Stiles as a journalist, because you - know - he'd make an awesome journalist, all relentless and inquisitive and bright-eyed and irresistible. Derek is maybe the surly, reclusive star Stiles is trying to interview, or maybe also a journalist (one who terrorizes all his interviewees with his brusque manner and eyebrows of doom)?
> 
> IDEK I just really, really want some (any) kind of journalist!Stiles (Sterek!)shenanigans. Please? :)
> 
> I really hope that this is what you were looking for, OP! <3 It took a dramatic turn away from fluff, but I hope you'll still enjoy it.

“Bilinski, so help me, if I get one more call about you creeping around the old Hale place, I will have you re-writing the church schedules and 4-H press releases until you’re too old to type!”

For a man paid to watch the details and get things right, it amazed and horrified Stiles that his city editor could never get his name correct. Ever.

“Okay, Bob,” he jerked upright in his desk chair at the glare that earned from across the aisle of desks. “Uh, Coach Finstock, sorry. Who called and told you I was at the Hale house?”

“Does it matter? Do you honestly think I cared who was complaining when I found out that my newest reporter blew off the plum assignment I gave him of covering the city council to go lurking around the woods in the middle of nowhere?”

“Well, technically, it wasn’t the middle of—”

“I don’t care!” Finstock waved his ever-present clipboard around, and Stiles pondered how a man could go from high school lacrosse coach to sports writer and eventually become editor of the Beacon Hills Chronicle strictly by virtue of sticking around on the staff the longest. Which explained why he preferred to go by “Coach” but why Stiles had heard people muttering “Cupcake” at him, he still hadn’t figured out…

“I said, do you understand?” Finstock’s voice was uncomfortably close, and Stiles tuned in long enough to nod.

“Don’t go to the Hale house on company time. Get to council meetings early. Finish my feature on the city’s sewer project for the Saturday paper, got it. But, you will notice that I already turned in my story about the council meeting. Other than some more talk about zoning and complaining about kids not obeying curfew, there wasn’t much business.” 

And Stiles had to give all his thanks for finding that out to Allison, personal secretary to her father Mayor Argent, who had seen him sneaking into the meeting nearly an hour late. But, she’d stayed afterward to make sure he had a meeting packet like the ones she’d prepared for council members along with some hastily transcribed notes from her own file. He made a mental note to take more cookies to her office because the best way to get the dirt on the city council was definitely to befriend the real women in charge — the administrative staff.

Finstock was shaking his head as he slumped back into his seat. “I saw your story. Dry, but serviceable for now. I just don’t know about you, Bilinski. I think you have some talent. I saw your writing samples and talked to one of your professors when we hired you. I just wonder if you have the dedication.”

“I do, I swear. I’m just a little … bored?” Stiles tried then hurried on as Finstock’s eyes started to narrow. “It’s not that I don’t love city council and the city works projects. And spending the weekend at the apple festival. It’s just that I’ve been wondering and wanting to—”

“Stop it right there. You want a big story? You want to get out there and cover something exciting that will get your byline noticed by everyone in town?” When Stiles’ head bobbled in agreement, Finstock leaned closer. “So you think you’re good enough to take on a big scoop? Do you really think you have what it takes?”

Stiles was nodding so frantically, it was starting to hurt his neck. “Yes! Yes, I really do!”

“Well okay then!” Finstock slapped his hand down on his desk and sighed. “I wasn’t going to do this, but you’re actually all I’ve got right now. My police reporter is stuck in the bathroom with ulcerative colitis, and all the other guys are tied up on their beats. It’s down to you and Greenberg, and we all know that Greenberg is only interested in that lifestyles shit so if it’s not a cookie recipe or an interior design tip, he doesn’t have a clue. Here.”

Stiles grabbed at the sheet of paper Finstock shoved at him and gave a little yell. “A murder! Here in Beacon Hills? Oh my god, no way!”

“And that’s the kind of journalistic sensitivity I’m looking for,” Finstock grumbled. “County sheriff’s department’s holding a press conference in 15 minutes. You should have just enough time to get down to city hall.”

Stiles was still gaping at the press release that only announced the time and location of the press conference with a very terse “Update on suspicious deaths.” From what Stiles had learned in the nine months he’d lived there, there had been no really suspicious deaths in Beacon Hills for more than six years, and he couldn’t believe not one but two had happened now when he would have a chance to follow them.

“I’ll do my best, coach,” he promised as Finstock snorted.

“Just get me the whole story, kid. I want every detail, you got it?”

“Got it!” Stiles parroted back as he flailed to get all his supplies packed in his messenger bag and take off for the door.

“Deadline is nine p.m. Or sooner!” Finstock’s yell followed him to the stairwell, but Stiles couldn’t stop the grin on his face. A death was a terrible, awful thing, but he couldn’t help being just a little excited — just a little — at the thought of covering such an important story. It even drove out the thought of the Hale mystery from his mind, at least for the moment.

Of course there was no parking on the block anywhere near city hall so Stiles had to park in the public garage and sprint toward the building. He tore open the front door, huffing in impatience as an elderly woman exited, then ran for the conference room. It was smaller than the city council meeting room, and he’d never actually been there, but he was pretty sure it was right around the corner.

It and about 180 pounds of solid muscle. Stiles bounced right off the hard body and right onto the tile floor. “Ouch,” he said when his butt landed, jarring his whole body.

The dark-haired guy he’d run into hadn’t even taken a step back from the force of the collision. He only stared down at Stiles for an instant then opened the door of the conference room and walked in.

“I’m fine, really, thanks for asking,” Stiles told his back as the door swung shut behind him. “Asshole.” He got up, gathered his bag and limped into the conference room, rubbing carefully at his tailbone.

It was just like adding insult to injury when he saw everyone else was seated, just waiting for Sheriff Harris to start speaking at the podium. The small group of police officers, media and some people Stiles didn’t recognize watched him stumble in and duck below the TV cameras then ignored his little wave as he took a seat behind the Muscled-Wall guy, wishing there were a way to sink into the ground.

“If we’re all ready now,” Harris growled out, staring pointedly at Stiles, who was too busy getting out his phone to start recording along with his notebook and pen.

“We have two bodies that were found in the woods this morning by joggers,” Harris began and used small words to spell out that police weren’t releasing any names yet or official causes of death pending toxicology reports that would take up to six weeks. The two were identified as male and were found near a popular hang-out spot where local teens went to light bonfires and drink on the weekends.

Stiles’ knee bounced up and down as he scribbled notes, wondering and waiting for the big news.

Harris finally sighed and said, “What we can tell you is, one body was found in the burn barrel that is at the site while the other was found nearby in some underbrush. One suffered severe burns which may have contributed to the cause of death while the other…” Harris looked down at his notes then glanced over at a man standing by the door who shrugged. “The other appears to have suffered stab wounds and scratches.”

Stiles’ head jerked up when Harris added, “His throat was cut.”

“No way,” Stiles breathed out louder than he’d expected then bit down on the cap of his pen when most of the eyes in the audience turned to look at him.

Harris was one of those glaring at him, but he recovered to gather his notes and tap them on the podium. “That’s all we have for you right now. When we have made positive identifications and notified the immediate families then — and only then — will we release the names to you. And we will get back to you as soon as we’ve made any arrests. Thank you.”

He started to walk away, looking like he was planning to ignore the questions the reporters were firing at him.

One of them — Jackson Whittemore, the douchebag from the local NBC affiliate who’d become Stiles’ mortal enemy all of about five minutes after he moved to town — stood up and loudly said, “What about reports that there is some sort of serial killer on the loose? Shouldn’t we warn our viewers that there’s a murderer running around our county?”

Harris turned to give Jackson a look that Stiles could feel shrivel his balls just from his proximity to the TV reporter, but Jackson just glared back. Stiles knew Jackson was using the old bluffing tactic to get more information, and he knew Harris wouldn’t fall for it.

“We have no reason to believe that these deaths were part of anything like that,” Harris finally spit out. “We do think there was a connection with some illegal drugs, but we can’t speculate on that until we get the toxicology reports to see what the victims were on at the time of death. At this point, we have no reason to believe it was anything more than a drug deal gone bad or something similar.”

“What kind of scratches?” The voice was quiet but pierced through the white noise of the room of people beginning to talk to each other.

Stiles glanced around to see who had spoken when he realized it was Tall, Dark and Seriously Hard-Bodied Dude.

“What?” Harris asked.

Stiles watched the back of the dude’s head as he asked again. “What kind of scratches were on the victim’s body?”

“I don’t see—”

“And it’s very interesting that Dr. Deaton, consultant to the county’s animal control department, is in attendance at this press conference. What would a veterinarian be doing as part of a murder investigation?” the man asked as Stiles scribbled to get it all down.

Harris looked like he was ready to spit nails but only ground out, “We’re not calling it a murder investigation. It’s classified as suspic—”

“Because one man falling into a fire barrel and another having his throat slashed and scratches sounds like a suicide pact or accidental death?” 

Stiles had to snort then stuff his free fist into his mouth at that. Apparently Mr. Muscles also had a witty way with sarcasm, which Stiles could greatly appreciate.

“We’re not going to make any speculations—”

“That’s okay because our viewers will make lots of speculations about what sort of creature is running at large, killing people,” Jackson piped up. Stiles rolled his eyes — leave it to the TV reporters to always resort to melodrama. “What could it be? Coyote? Cougar? Mountain lion?”

Harris took a step forward, actually looking like he would come at Jackson, when Mayor Chris Argent stepped smoothly in front of him. He smiled that vacant politician’s smile, complete with big white teeth, that gave Stiles the serious creeps and always made him vow to brush more.

“Now, now, Jackson, we don’t want to alarm the good citizens of Beacon Hills, cause undue panic or add fuel to the fire, pardon the expression. Sheriff Harris, I’m sure that you could give a few more details to the fine ladies and gentlemen of the media without jeopardizing your investigation.” Argent turned his big smile on Harris, but it only seemed to infuriate the sheriff. After a long moment of unspoken conversation, Harris finally turned back to the reporters.

“All I can add is that we believe there might have been some kind of wild animal involved in the incident. Our investigators are speculating that some sort of large animal might have attacked the first victim, leaving him with the scratch injuries, and provoking the second victim to fall into the fire as he tried to flee.”

“What sort of animal?” Jackson pressed, motioning for his camera guy to keep rolling even though he was already focused on Harris.

“We are not free to say at this time. Good day,” and Harris swept out of the room, the couple deputies who had attended following.

Stiles hadn’t even had the chance to ask a question, and he was cursing himself out when he realized that Snark and Muscles had risen from his chair and was heading directly for Dr. Deaton who was edging toward the door.

Stiles didn’t even care that his chair tipped right into Jackson as he leaped out of it to follow. Dr. Deaton was shaking his head and giving a small, close-lipped smile as he said, “I’m afraid I’m really not at liberty to say.”

“But you must have some ideas based on the injuries.” Snark and Muscles apparently had some dogged determination to go along with the looks and wit, Stiles thought. “Have you found any hair or fur samples?”

“Now, I’m really sorry I can’t say anything else,” Deaton said.

“Was it a big animal?” Stiles blurted out then nearly bit his tongue when the other man shot him a look under thick, dark eyebrows. “I’m only asking because I like to go out in the woods out there, and I really don’t want to look like kibble to some big beast.”

Deaton chuckled but shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything else. But, I’m sure that you should be safe if you stick to the trails and hike during the day. Whatever is going on, the police will take care of it.”

“Do you believe—”

Stiles thought that this Dr. Deaton must be awfully brave because he patted — literally patted — the other man’s arm as he interrupted him. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything else, Derek. You take care of yourself and have a good day.”

Stiles moved a step away from the man who growled when Deaton just walked out of the conference room. The growl seemed to intensify when he turned to look at Stiles, so he threw up his hands in the sign of surrender, nearly taking out his eye with his pen. 

“I was asking him questions when you came along,” he leaned into Stiles’ personal space, and if Stiles hadn’t been trying to plan at least three ways to use his pen and notebook in self defense, he would have thought that the guy smelled really nice. And that his eyes were pretty, which he only noticed in case he had to poke one to escape.

“I just wanted to ask him questions, too. These asshats aren’t giving us any information. It’s ridiculous,” Stiles said then thrust his hand out, almost smacking the guy’s chest. “By the way I’m Stiles, from the Chronicle.”

The guy just curled a lip at him and stalked away out of the room.

Stiles hated to see him leave, but he loved to watch him go because his ass looked as firm as the rest of him in those jeans and then Jackson was body-checking him. “Move it or lose it, Stilinski. You’re in the way of my shot with the mayor,” he said.

Stiles turned his stumble into a little wave at Mayor Argent then went back to gather his bag and things. He was so disappointed and frustrated that his first big crime case sounded so interesting and crazy but would make a terrible story because the police refused to give out any real information. He was just starting to dread going back to Finstock when Scott McCall, a part-time photographer they usually only called for busy high school sports weekends, ran in. 

Stiles smiled at him while he tried to catch his breath and finally succeeded in pulling an inhaler out of his camera bag. “Sorry I’m late,” he wheezed. “What’d I miss?”

Stiles sighed and threw his arm around Scott’s shoulders. “You missed everything, buddy, but there wasn’t anything to shoot. What do you say you and me take a little walk in the woods?”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I lied about being able to update this quickly because life is kicking my butt right now. But, I am working on this and still have no idea exactly how many chapters it will be. I will not abandon any fic!


End file.
